All Along the Watchtower
by Celia Caws
Summary: a stranger comes to the village, unfolding a series of events that may unravel the village entirelymeanwhile, Ivy is still fighting for Lucius.


Title: All Along the Watchtower

Genre: angst

Rating: R

A/N: This is the beginning to a story taking place after Ivy returned from her journey through the woods. It explores how far means justify the end, in the elders' eyes and what would happen if a stranger came to the village.

The first time he heard it, it was only the faintest suggestion of a melody. It barely rose above the howl of the wind.

He was in the watchtower and it had come to that time of night when he'd given up all pretense of keeping watch. He was all too aware of the hideous darkness behind him as he sat with his back to the woods. His body was completely hidden from what eyes that might be watching from behind the shroud of trees and he liked it that way. If those We Do Not Speak Of would breach the border lined with poles, painted with the good color, they would do so unseen by Flinton Coin.

What he hated most about these nights keeping watch, after the other villagers lay calm and sleeping in their beds, was the silence. He himself was not, as they say, a talker—he kept his thoughts and himself, to himself. Friends, as a consequence, were not in abundance for Flinton. But he had Lucius for a friend, and sometimes he sat with him and they were quiet together, listening for sound. That waiting—that was terrible to do, alone, like tonight.

With anyone else, he would've been ashamed of his frequent shivers, his shaking hands. But Lucius was a quiet kind of man, older than Flinton, but similar in character. He never looked at Flinton's shaking hands, and if he saw them from the corner of his eye, he did not mention them. He sometimes wondered at how Lucius seemed so at ease in the watchtower. He so often looked pained in the village, where they were surely safe and surrounded by the music of daily, busy life.

Music. That was what he heard! Flinton dared not look. No, he would not spare the woods a glance.

But the music, unlike any he had heard, was coming closer. Should he ring the bell then? Did Those We Do Not Speak Of have music of their own? Strange thought, dangerous thought. Though he could not have explained why the thought was dangerous… He merely skidded away from it in his mind and concentrated on making himself small against the wall behind him.

"Please, please, please…" It was some kind of prayer he was saying—please, don't make me ring the bell. Please don't make it so I have to.

But then, the wind that had been howling all night, suddenly seemed to shiver slightly and die down. The music was clear—it was a voice, a human voice.

That should have calmed him. But it did not. Who would be out so late at night, by the border, singing? What woman—for it was a female voice, a girl's voice… he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to identify the owner of the voice. It couldn't, of course, be anyone but a member of the village. But something told him to remain still. He had never heard music like this before.

"_T'was in another lifetime, _

_one of toil and blood_

_When blackness was a virtue_

_and the road was full of mud_

_I came in from the wilderness_

_A creature void of form_

_Come in, she said, I'll give you _

_shelter from the storm"_

He paused. Was it his duty to go down and see to it that the woman go to bed? He felt embarrassed even at the thought of going down and telling someone what to do—whoever she was, she was a _girl. _

She would probably be amongst the many girls in the village that he had stared at, and one of the many who had laughed loudly when Christoph told them, _"Yes, I assure you Flinton has a special record in the game by the stump…the quickest to jump off and run home! Why, he'd barely stood there two minutes when he ran like wild dogs were on his heels!" _

He cringed at the memory of all that female laughter, alluring and strange. However, he could not help but remember as well, how Lucius had talked to him a few nights ago in the watchtower, when the moon was so bright above them it had been as good as daylight. All bathed in that white and eerie glow, Lucius seemed oddly fitting. Abruptly, as though he had read where Flinton's thoughts were straying, he'd said, "Flinton, forget them. You will one day meet your fear and then…then it will vanish. It only has a hold on you so long as you do nothing."

Flinton had looked at him searchingly. "It's not as though you were afraid. You're not afraid of anything, are you, Lucius?"

But Lucius had not answered and Flinton had imagined there were some fears left for his friend to meet and so do away with. He himself remained fearful. How could he go to the stump after once being so humiliated? Now, at his age, after Christoph was married, after his little brother had died? He was too old for games in the dark and little boys' measures of bravery.

The voice carried high and he tilted his head, eyes closed, swayed and somehow soothed by the melodic fall and rise of her imperfect notes. A young voice, not a voice he knew from church. A sweet voice.

Suddenly, the singing stopped.

The silence left in its wake was deadening. A sickening jolt went through Flinton, for just as he half-rose to see the owner of the voice, the silence was replaced with a guttural growl. It went through and through him—an animal snarl. A wild and threatening snarl of a creature let loose by insanity and then….

Screaming. Screaming.

"…this is a matter of some delicacy. As a community, this village has proven to be a haven for its families. We came to Covington Woods in search of a place to build houses and we found a home. Through family ties, industry, friendship and hope for our future, and our children's future, we have forged more than a village—we have built, from mere wood and brick, our dream."

Edward Walker paused, staring ahead of him, as though that dream hung before him, as tangible as a child, as a lamb, as a house. The congregation remained quiet, every head bowed. There was no room for curiosity—the air in the village was thick, almost stifling with fear.

"The woman found by young Flinton Coin is…hardly a woman at all. She is a child, younger than my daughter, Ivy.

You are fearful.

I understand the fear of the towns. They are wicked places. But wicked places, are places where people live, without consideration for others—people who have forgotten mercy, goodness, generosity. It is sensible to fear the loss of these virtues.

It makes sense to fear the woods.

But we should not fear, and we should by all means_ never_ shun—a child. An innocent. Yes, she is an outsider, but she is not a threat.

Her kin is dead. She is alone. No one has followed her, no one shall. It is apparent to me that she has been left unmarked by Those We Do Not Speak Of. She has not been harmed. However, she has been frightened. She saw things in the woods that human eyes are not meant to see. As a result…she has lost the ability to speak."

A murmur rose among the villagers, but it was one of shock and pity. The fear, the strange threatening looming anger behind that fear—had gone. _Stranger _was a word that could mean anything. But a child, a girl, a girl so meek she could not even command her own voice—that was nothing to fear. She was unfortunate. As unfortunate, perhaps, as Ivy.

Poor Ivy…the mere mention of her name caused villagers to turn and stare as Ivy sat, apparently unmoved by hearing her father speak. She did not stir at the sound of her name. She was like a mute herself, totally silent, totally harmless.

Meek.

Weak.

The villagers were soothed, and sat back in their chairs to hear the end of Mr. Walker's speech.

"As she has no home nor kin to return to, I embrace her as a kindred spirit, searching for a place to call her own. I embrace her as one of us and as one of my own—as of today, she will live as a daughter in my home and no blood relation could be more welcome in my eyes.

I know, my friends, you will embrace her as well and treat her with the kindness and compassion she deserves."

A brief moment of silence was observed, as though to acknowledge the wisdom of Edward Walker's words. Then the villagers rose and there was the hustle and bustle of life, and much relieved, cheerful talking.

Many of them went to shake Edward's hand warmly and tell him how good it was of him to take in a mute child, a child that may not ever be able to express thanks.

And as they emptied out of the town hall, Ivy sat still, her eyes on the floor. She was thinking of Lucius. She was thinking of the weeks when people had come to her and said: "He is alive, Ivy, consider how easily he might have died…it is a blessing he has survived at all." A wisp of red hair fell over her luminous face and she looked up at the outline of color that was her father's.

"Ivy…"

"Papa." She smiled wanly. "What a rousing speech."

"It had to be. I wish the village to love the child, Ivy."

Ivy smiled. "I would not worry, Papa. A child that does not speak can keep secrets very well. Such a child must be a favorite."

"Please—" Her father touched her shoulder before she could stand to go. "Ivy, I understand your sorrow. But you can't live in mourning forever."

Ivy scowled into the air before her. They said she lost her spirit but she certainly had not. It was that same restless, untamable spirit that fueled her quiet, persistent rage. "He's not dead."

"He will never…"

"He will." Ivy remembered the way Lucius buried his face into her hair, the way his tears made her neck damp, and rolled down her back. She could not breathe properly till she felt his body go limpid with sleep. She lay awake still longer, waiting to feel his body thrash. She would put her hands over his face, over his shut eyes, feeling his eyeballs roll like marbles in terror. "_Wake up, Lucius! You're having a nightmare…" _"He will."


End file.
